How R.D. Bansal Helped Shape Satyajit Ray's Legacy—and Why His Granddaughter Is Restoring It

The Hindu

02-05-2025

Published : May 02, 2025 07:11 IST - 7 MINS READ
'Mahanagar was a disaster commercially. But Baba was very happy.'
Satyajit Ray's Mahanagar (The Big City) is now considered a classic, but when it was released in 1963, it didn't set the box office on fire. Still, Ray's producer, R.D. Bansal, remained unfazed, says his granddaughter Varsha Bansal, now an executive producer herself.
The name R.D. Bansal is well known to Ray fans. 'Presented by R.D. Bansal' appeared in the opening credits of many Ray films. It turns out Bansal had his own cinematic mahanagar story. Ram Das Bansal was the fourth of six brothers in a family from Agra involved in the marble business. 'At age 16, he just ran away to Kolkata, the big city,' says Varsha. There, he set up his own venture—Bansal Marbles. Eventually, his brothers followed him to the mahanagar. But then, life took a more filmic turn.
One day, work took him to Grace Cinema in North Kolkata. 'He saw people buying tickets and entering the cinema. There was no credit system,' recalls Varsha. That amazed young Bansal, who was used to the credit-heavy marble trade.
Eventually, Bansal bought Grace Cinema. Soon, he owned a string of theatres in Kolkata—Grace, Lotus, Indira, Vaishali—and even one in Jamshedpur. 'I think he was intrigued by films,' says Varsha. When a script came his way that he liked, he decided to produce it. Shashi Babur Sansar, starring Chhabi Biswas and Sabitri Chatterjee, became a runaway hit, and Bansal was hooked.
From Marble to 'Mahanagar'
Meanwhile, Satyajit Ray was making waves in Indian cinema, and it was inevitable their paths would cross. Both were a few films old when Mahanagar happened. The story of a middle-class woman daring to step out and work likely appealed to Bansal. 'He was really ahead of his time,' remembers Varsha. 'I was one of three granddaughters. And Baba gave us the freedom to think.' So even though the film was not a commercial success, he had no regrets. The marble business was doing well, and he was impressed that Ray stuck to the proposed budget—down to the last penny.
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Bansal had no hesitation about working with Ray again. They collaborated on Kapurush, Mahapurush; Charulata; and Nayak; one after another.
None of them turned a real profit until Joi Baba Felunath, the Feluda detective film, years later. Nayak (1966) was a modest hit, partly thanks to Bengal's superstar Uttam Kumar. But it also landed poor Bansal in jail for a night. In one dream sequence, Uttam Kumar's character, Arindam, is seen drowning in currency notes. Someone complained that real money had been printed for the scene. As the film premiered, the police showed up.
The story goes that Ray had to call Indira Gandhi to get his producer released. Varsha is not sure about that part, but she says the family was so shaken that they urged Bansal to stop producing films. One immediate casualty was Goopy Gyne Bagha Byne, a musical based on a beloved children's story. According to Ray's biographer, Andrew Robinson, in Satyajit Ray: The Inner Eye, Bansal 'had a sudden loss of confidence'—partly because Ray wanted to shoot the film in colour in Rajasthan, which would have been prohibitively expensive. Eventually, producer-distributors Nepal and Asim Dutta stepped in. The film was made in black and white, with only the final scene in colour. Ray's dream of capturing Rajasthan in full colour had to wait for Sonar Kella.
R.D. Bansal remained involved in cinema. His biggest hit was a non-Ray film—Saat Paake Bandha, starring Suchitra Sen, Soumitra Chatterjee, and Chhaya Devi. Years later came Ogo Bodhu Sundari, the Bengali remake of My Fair Lady and Uttam Kumar's last film.
What makes the Bansal story remarkable is that a marble dealer from Uttar Pradesh became so deeply embedded in Bengali cultural life. And he did not just produce films—he backed 'arty' films. 'He lost money, but he gained a lot of fame and respect,' says Varsha. 'He even went with Ray to Berlin. Fifty or sixty people came to the airport to see him off with garlands. He was the first from our family to travel abroad.'
'A lot of Bengalis probably wondered who this man from Uttar Pradesh was, making Bengali films,' she laughs. Meanwhile, many in the business community were baffled that he was 'throwing good money after bad'. 'Films weren't seen as very respectable,' says Varsha. 'So eyebrows were raised on both sides.'
Restoring Ray
R.D. Bansal could have remained a footnote in Ray nostalgia. The family could have simply protected the precious Ray negatives they owned. 'We kept them in an air-conditioned room with the AC running ten hours a day,' says Varsha. 'But when we reviewed them every six months, we could see the quality deteriorating.' Humidity is a killer—negatives can stick, scratch, or suffer from dirt, thumbprints, and wear from repeated use.
After her grandfather passed away, Varsha told her father: 'Baba's name came from these films. If not us, who else will restore them?'
They found Pixion Studios in Mumbai, which had been restoring Hollywood films like Where Eagles Dare. Excited at the chance to work on a full Ray feature, Pixion painstakingly scanned and cleaned the negatives frame by frame, producing a 10-minute sample. 'We saw it and decided—let's go all in,' says Varsha. The restoration took about 18 months. They sent the films to Criterion in the US, which typically handles its own restorations of classic films.
'Every day I would check my email,' recalls Varsha. 'Then one day, they wrote back: 'It's fabulous. We love it.'' The restored films began screening to renewed acclaim at festivals like Venice, Cairo, and the British Film Institute. 'Ten years ago, technology only allowed 2K restoration,' says Varsha. 'Now it's almost 8K. If someone wants to go that far, the negatives are ready.' But no longer in the Bansal offices—the better-equipped Austrian Film Archive now houses them.
It was harder to convince Indian theatres to screen the restored films. Ray has always been more appreciated abroad than at home. Varsha did not want a throwaway screening slot. Her persistence paid off. 'I watched Mahanagar on a big screen in Kolkata, in a theatre that was 80 per cent full. When the final 'Samapto' [The End] title came on, people just started to clap. It was a thrill like no other.' They may have been applauding both the brilliance of the film and the beauty of its restoration.
Her one regret is that, even though they have proven it can be done, there is still little appetite for restoring India's film heritage. 'The government shows zero interest,' says Varsha. 'And even producers of other Ray films like Seemabaddha aren't doing anything. I go with my collector's boxes and folders of articles. They're glad it's been done—but they don't want to take it further.'
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There is a perception that there is no market for these classics. But Varsha disagrees. 'I do screenings in cinema museums every month. I have 20 distributors. The NFDC doesn't market its films well enough—I had to find my own market.' It is a niche, but one that can offer a return. 'I'm even willing to help others represent their films,' she says. 'I'll do it for them. I just want people to be aware.'
Varsha says she got into this because film was always a passion. She learned by sitting beside her grandfather in his office. She absorbed his discipline—he arrived every day at 10:30 am sharp and stayed until 7 pm. He also taught her not to show too much excitement, even for a film he was desperate to acquire. 'Before the exhibitor walked in, he'd say, 'I have to get this no matter what.' But once they were in the room, he acted like he was doing them a favour.'
Now, as they release the restored versions of the classics he once backed, Varsha Bansal can finally show all the excitement she wants.
'Maybe I have a secret desire to be a filmmaker,' she confesses. But bringing an old classic back to life, decades after it first lit up the screen, comes close enough.
Sandip Roy is a podcaster and columnist and the author of the novel Don't Let Him Know.